


here is the deepest secret nobody knows

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Canonical Character Death, Foiled Confessions, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Sad Ending, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 05, Undercover as a Couple, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9573842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: Five times Harold called John dear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags.

Harold has kept many secrets over the years. He promised especially never to lie to John. But he never said he would not protect him. At times when the truth may have caused John pain, Harold has bent his own rules.

Protecting John from the depth of Harold’s feelings for him has been one of the easier secrets to keep, in the grand scheme of things. It concerns only Harold’s selfish heart, rather than the lives of people John has loved, such as Jessica and Joss. Harold has watched John fall in and out of love with so many women. Every time it happens, Harold is convinced that he is doing the right thing, keeping this knowledge to himself.

But even despite this, Harold has not always kept his secret so faithfully as he ought.

 

-one-

 

The first time it happens, Mr. Reese is badly injured.

"Well, here we again," Harold sighs, sinking into the chair at John's bedside. "You, fighting for your life, and me...watching, unable to do anything substantial to help. It's exhausting, quite frankly." Ms. Shaw has patched him up with frightening skill and competence. John is heavily sedated, and won't hear a word of this. Harold is talking more for his own good than anything else. He needs a way to process the events of the last few hours. Not being a man drawn to drink or diary keeping, pontificating aloud, even though he feels ridiculous, is one means of unburdening himself.

"I dislike seeing you hurt." He adds, stating the obvious. Harold smooths out a wrinkle in John's blankets, picks a speck of lint from the sheet and lets it drop to the floor. He concentrates on the slow rise and fall of John's chest for a while. The tension in Harold's shoulders lessens by degrees with every successful breath John takes. He's alarmingly pale. The blood loss has taken its toll. He'll recover, given plenty of rest and fluids, but every time this happens is an occurrence too many.

Oh, Harold feels too old for this level of worry. The numbers have aged him, the constant stress and exertion. John's hair is flecked with far more gray than it used to have. One day they will have to stop this work, if it doesn't kill them first. He has no idea how to convince John to retire from the job which he has long said gives him purpose.

Harold reaches out and lays a hand on John's shoulder. And then, because nobody is listening, and because his heart is heavy, eyelids drooping, Harold murmurs: "You are...extraordinarily dear to me. I am so grateful for everything you do, and all that you can be."

 

-two-

 

"What do you think of the layout, darling?"

John, who spent six weeks sleeping under a cardboard box while on the streets, struggles to think of something appropriate to say. He's meant to be John Wilcox, pilates instructor, soon to be married to Harold Merganser, art critic. His brain is quietly overloading on the fact that Harold is holding his hand and calling him darling.

Harold seems to take John's silence for disapproval. "Hmm, yes, it's not one of the best we've seen. Those curtains would have to go, of course."

Their realtor, Kim Moyer, who is also their number, makes his way towards the front door. "I'll leave you two to confer," he stammers, before practically fleeing.

Once he's out of range, John drops Harold's hand. "Laying it on a bit thick, weren't you?"

"Honestly, dear, I don't know what you mean." Harold says, in the same terrible accent, and then smiles one of his breathtaking sly smiles.

John sighs. "I'm glad you're having fun, at least."

Harold is already at work priming the security system and installing discreet cameras. If Moyer brings anyone back here out-of-hours, they'll know about it. John opens every storage space in the house, looking for clues. He finds old receipts and spare keys, but not much else. If Moyer is making records of his conquests, he isn't dumb enough to keep them here, in the one apartment he can never seem to sell.

"Ready to go, John?" Harold calls from downstairs four minutes later, thankfully in his normal voice, and John meets him in the lounge. Before John can report his lack of findings, Moyer is back and Harold suddenly gravitates towards John, over-performing once again. "We may or may not be in touch about an offer," he says, grandly, his hand on John's waist. John once again contributes nothing, concentrating on not flinching or laughing out loud. He is so not pretending to be Harold's date ever again if Finch works this hard to make him uncomfortable.

"I can come back if you need more time to decide," Moyer says.

"No, we've seen enough, thank you," Harold replies, and ushers John out of there as though they're in a great hurry to be somewhere, anywhere else.

"Did you find something?" John asks once they get in the car, hoping there's an explanation which Finch didn't have time to give him before.

"When I said Wilcox is probably a strong, silent type, I didn't mean that silent," Harold laughs, instead of answering John's question, so John takes that as a no? He doesn't know anymore, he's totally confused.

 

-three-

 

Harold dreams, sometimes, about kissing, holding, being with John. Being able to make use of the names, the silly romantic notions which bubble up from deep within him whenever Harold lets himself indulge them.

One night, he goes to sleep with the earpiece still in and wakes up gasping what he was saying over and over in the dream. “John, John, can you hear me?”

John’s raspy voice in his ear. “Finch? What is it? Are you hurt?”

Harold struggles to breathe for the relief which hits him like a ton of bricks. “Oh, my dear, there you are. Just a dream. Just a dream. Bear, no, get down, I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t know this blasted thing was on. In my sleep I couldn’t contact you. You’re definitely not trapped under any rubble, are you?”

John huffs down the line. “Nope. I’m home. All limbs intact, no wounds or broken bones.”

“Good. That’s good to know.”

“…Harold, did you just call me your dear?”

“I think you’ll find I said ‘oh dear’. Honestly, Mr. Reese, where is your mind?”

 

-four-

 

“Mr. Reese is a dear friend, and I don’t know what I would do without him!” Harold snaps, before too-firmly pressing the key on his keyboard which discontinues the program.

It takes him a moment to realize what he has said. And more importantly, where he has said it.

Root is looking at him from the other side of the subway car. "Did you just...yell at the Machine?" She asks, highly amused. "What did She say to you?"

Even worse, John has stopped playing with Bear and has a soft, dazed look in his eye. "Awww, Finch."

Harold flusters, stares down at his hands. "There are some bugs remaining from the time She considered us all threats, John especially." He explains, as calmly as he can. "The Machine is recommending that I fire him, and find a more...reliable replacement."

John laughs. He’s probably more offended than he lets on. "That's okay, I don't like your Machine either."

Root isn't too happy about this mutual dislike. "You should trust Her more." She tells John. "She tries hard to protect you, all of us."

Reese shrugs. "I know that." At this point, Bear demands walkies from John, who leaves.

Harold just about manages not to put his head in his hands with embarrassment. He can feel Root gazing at him knowingly. She always was too attuned to his specific kind of need for John. He can only hope Mr. Reese will take it simply at face value.

 

-five-

 

The last time is after he moves back in with Grace.

He cannot speak his feelings out loud anymore. He sits alone in his brand new study, with the paint still drying, and he decides to write a letter.

He only manages a few words.

_My dear John. I wish you could have let me save you, instead of the other way around._

He rips it up, later. It is only one of many secrets which Harold will take to the grave.

**Author's Note:**

> [i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/49493)


End file.
